


Lust for Life

by apocketfulofwry



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Doctors, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BAMF Margaery Tyrell, Brain Surgery, Call room sex, Dr Tywin Lannister, F/M, Grey's Anatomy References, Hospital Sex, Margaery Tyrell rules at everything, Medical Jargon, Older Man/Younger Woman, Petyr and Sansa are Surgeons, Romance, Teacher-Student Relationship, The Grey's Anatomy AU Nobody Asked For
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-04-01 11:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13997382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apocketfulofwry/pseuds/apocketfulofwry
Summary: In the morning half-light, she's incandescent.Alabaster skin, smooth as a liar's tongue, glowing like fucking David at the Galleria dell'Academia.Her copper hair is a fiery waterfall cascading down her back, individual wisps in golden illumination.Not five minutes into his day and he's already spouting poetry.Petyr isfuckstruck.—One night stands were supposed to be easy.Dealing with the morning after? Not so easy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ophelia_Raine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelia_Raine/gifts).



> Because Ophelia_Raine wanted a Dr Bae AU. 
> 
> Any and all medical inaccuracies are mine and mine alone.

_Here comes Johnny Yen again_  
_With the liquor and drugs_  
_And the flesh machine_  
_He's gonna do another striptease_  
_Hey man where'd you get that lotion?_  
_I been hurting_  
_Since I bought the gimmick_  
_About something called love_  
_Yeah something called love_  
_That's like hypnotizing chickens_  
_Well I am just a modern guy_

\- Iggy Pop, _Lust for Life_

 

She's late.

She's late, and she's never late. 

He's still asleep, flat on his back. The smattering of hair on his chest parted by the breadth of the scar that halves the length of him. From collarbone down, down, meandering past his belly to disappear beneath the sheets that preserve his modesty. 

His lean torso is pale in the early morning sun, the planes and valleys of warm flesh put on this earth to tempt her into sin.

He stirs, and his sigh is drowned out by the rustle of sheets, of cars honking outside. 

She freezes. 

Her eyes travel back up, past the growing bulge in his groin. Tracing up that scar again. 

It's an intriguing thing, this long, hard ridge of knit flesh where no hair grew. Parting as if in deference to where it had once been been rent. The feel of it had startled her, in the dark, last night, as she ran her hands along his chest. A sudden smoothness in between the rough thatch of hair.

He'd held her then, taking her hands before they could finish their journey, pinning them above her head, his weight deliciously heavy on her. The hardness between his thighs pressed down into the softness between hers. 

The memory alone is enough for a low fullness to pool in her belly.

She really needs to get out of here. 

 

\--

 

He's awake. 

"Hey," his voice is a rumble. His eyes are a fickle shade of green, almost grey in the relative dim of the room. 

His hand is warm. His fingers long, well formed. Thumb tracing circles against her inner thigh. Leading her once more into temptation. 

She feels that familiar ache between her legs, feel herself getting wet from the anticipation alone. 

She's going to be so late.

 

\--

 

He's leaning against the door of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips.  

He's eyeing her over the rim of his coffee mug in a way that makes her want to cross the distance between them and rip the pristine white cloth off. She first imagines pressing his still damp body against hers, then her thoughts shift, tumble down the rabbit hole to having her way with him once more -- this time, on the floor. 

She finished buttoning last night's clothes, still reeking of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Pulls her jacket on. He's still watching her, tongue darting out briefly to capture a stray drop of coffee from his upper lip. 

She longs to lick it off herself. She really should get out of here.  

In her jacket pocket, her phone vibrates discreetly with yet another text message. 

"I have to go. It was good to meet you..." 

"Petyr," he offers, holding out a hand. "I'm Petyr." 

"Alayne.” 

The lie is out of her mouth with a spontaneity that would have surprised her, if she weren’t already feeling like the Whore of Babylon. She gives his hand a brief shake, noting once more the smoothness of his palm and the wiry strength she could feel behind the slender fingers. 

"Alayne." He mulls the word over; testing the slide of consonants over his tongue. "Nice to meet you."

She shakes her head in wry amusement. "Believe me when I say that the pleasure's all mine, but we don't have to do this, you know? Make nice. I'll never see you again and that's the way I'd like to keep it." 

“Ah.” He seems nonplussed by this, carefully setting aside his cup on the dresser beside the door. 

She eyes her reflection in the mirror, pale and wan, and looking thoroughly, thoroughly debauched. The traces of last night’s exertions visible in the exhaustion that marks her frame, the slight droop to her lids. The lack of sleep makes her eyes gleam a little brighter than usual, a glassy sheen to their surface. 

Still, she’s looking entirely too cheerful for someone who had just had sex with a stranger. More than once. 

“I know you won’t believe me, but I don’t usually do things like _this_.” She waves her hand vaguely in the distance between them. 

“This.” 

“I don’t usually sleep with men I’ve only just met. I’m not that kind of girl.” 

He seems more entertained by her than anything.

“I’m certain you aren’t. But I did enjoy meeting you and I’d rather like to keep seeing you, if it’s all the same?” 

Sansa thinks he’s possibly more attractive in the light of day than he was last night, a dark stranger at a bar. The silver at his temples lend him a distinguished air and she’s really, really far too interested right now than she has the right to be. She’s sooo late and Margaery was going to kill her.

“That’s a really nice thing for you to say, but I’m a really busy girl and I don’t have time to start anything I can’t finish.”

“That’s a shame. I had a good time helping you finish last night.” 

Damn the man. She would not blush. She _would_ _not_ blush. “I’m going. Goodbye, Petyr.” 

“Goodbye, Alayne.” 

“Thanks for last night.” 

With that, she’s out the door, feeling the telltale flush of pink on her cheeks, the urge to smile at his impudence threatening to split her face.

 

\--

 

Sansa meets her future on Monday morning. They've already met though neither knows it yet.

"Stark!" Margaery nudges her shoulder with her own, both of them already gloved and gowned. "Get your head in the game." 

Sansa gives her the stink eye, kicking at the other girl's foot. "I'm always in the game." 

Margaery huffs through her mask. "This is major, babe. Old Lion's protege is in town. Word is, he's gunning for head of Neurosurgery. Varys is in the dog house." 

They've turned the thermostat so low Sansa wouldn't be surprised if steam came out through the fabric. It didn't. How disappointing. 

"Varys' had it coming for a while. I'm not surprised. He chose the wrong side. Of course Lannister's cleaning house." They're draping the patient now, clipping tubes. The instrument trays clatter into place. 

"You're biased because the Old Lion's soft on you. If you don't watch it, it'll be our heads on the block." Margaery's eyes crinkle at the corner, a smile behind her mask belying the warning in her words. Sansa knows she's talking shit. Typical Tyrell. "You okay to assist this?" 

 _It's a fucking appendectomy, not open-heart surgery._ She rolls her eyes, willing the other girl to stop with the questions. "I'm good. You shouldn't even be here, Tyrell. Don't you have interns to terrorize? You're practically slumming it."

The other girl raises her eyebrows at that. "Well, I would be knees deep in torture at this point of the day but my surgeon on deck decided to come in late, looking like she got the living daylights banged out of her." A sassy wink, and Sansa knows the Chief Resident's got her pegged.  

“Says you. I just had a late night, is all. Exams are up. I spent last night reading.” 

“Balls. I drove past your house and your car wasn’t parked outside.” 

“And what were you doing driving by my house past one in the morning?” 

“That’s none of your business,” shoots back the other girl, in an abrupt about-face once the tables had turned. 

“Just repaying the favor.” 

“Shut up and cut, Stark.” 

"Knife."

She feels the blade glide through virgin flesh, down into the deeper, fatty layer. It glistens yellow in the OR lights, like the flesh of an orange and Sansa feels the shift, feels the calm as the events of the past twenty-four hours fade to a dull roar in the back of her mind. 

There is nothing in this moment save for her, this body and this blood. 

It feels like Communion. 

 

\--

 

Tywin Lannister is waiting for her the moment she steps out of the O.R.

Just as it always has, the sight of him makes her heart flutter and skip a beat. He's tall, so tall. Quiet authority and broad shouldered strength. Tightly coiled power hidden beneath a fluid economy of movement that belies his sheer size. 

She’s a girl with a ridiculous crush, and a daddy kink that she can’t trace. Tyrell would have a field day. Friendships aside, there were some things that a girl had to keep to herself. Like possible gerontophilia. Though fifty-four wasn’t _that_ old. 

The Chief of Surgery is deep in conversation. He stands in half profile, arms crossed over his chest, head slightly tilted down low. He's so tall he towers over his companion, a slight man with his back to her dressed in scrubs, hair hidden beneath the cloth of his surgical cap. There's a design on it. From this distance it appears to her as a repetitive pattern of a silhouette of a little bird on a branch. 

Dr Lannister looks up, sees her, and the ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Dr Stark. Just the girl I wanted to see.” Girl. Ouch. Sansa feels like she should braid her hair into pigtails, put on a Raggedy Ann dress. “I was just telling Dr Baelish here what a promising candidate you would be for our Neurosurgery Program. He’s the former head of the program up at Vale Memorial. Absolutely groundbreaking work they’re doing there, though how they’ll manage without you I’ll never know, isn’t that right, Baelish?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir,” he turns around to acknowledge her. “I am but one man and they’ve done without me before.”

Silver temples. Green eyes. That face and all too familiar mouth twisted into an amused smirk. 

“Dr Stark.” 

“Dr Baelish.” 

In retrospect she should have put two and two together. The thumbnails on medical journals really were grainy black and white shit to begin with, but those temples were a dead giveaway. 

And that smirk. 

And that Marvel comic book ‘stache and beard combo.

The lazy way his eyes travelled down the length of her body, reminding her that he knew exactly what she looked like naked.

She met his stare head-on, shaking his proffered hand for the second time that day, her mind formulating an action plan for several possible scenarios. She looked him in the eye and willed him into silence, as he smiled back at her. 

She really should have smothered him in his sleep when she had the chance.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

He's not alone. 

He can feel eyes on him; feel his skin crawl with the defenceless vulnerability being naked with a stranger brings.  

The bed shifts beneath them and he knows his companion's made a move to get out. He would, too, had he been the one to wake up in a bed that was not his. As it is, the feel of the sheets are familiar, as is the play of light over his still-closed lids. The air is cool on his exposed skin. 

Though the temptation to feign sleep until she’s gone away is strong, he takes a deep breath and cracks an eye open. _Dear god, please don't let her be a dog_.

In the morning half-light, she's incandescent. Alabaster skin, smooth as a liar's tongue, glowing like fucking David at the Galleria dell'Academia.  

Her copper hair is a fiery waterfall cascading down her back, individual wisps in golden illumination. 

Not five minutes into his day and he's already spouting poetry.  

Petyr is fuckstruck.

The sharpness of his sudden exhale draws her attention to him and he’s placed himself under the microscope of her scrutiny, blue, blue eyes tracing their way shamelessly along his exposed length.

She sits up, and he stays sprawled out, watching her stretch. Entirely unselfconscious in her nakedness and he feels a stirring in his loins that is in no way related to his body's waking physiology, but everything to do with this woman beside him. 

"Hey," he ventures by way of polite conversation.

What does one say in moments such as these?  

There is no primer on the hump and dump. No medical text for how to proceed with the societal niceties of extricating oneself from an alcohol fuelled transaction of the flesh, paid for in sweat and the glorious ache of muscles put to vigorous use. 

Very vigorous use. 

He feels himself rise to the occasion under that permafrost gaze, all cool detachment and carnal knowing. Damned if Petyr isn’t even more turned on, driven by the need to remember what she looked like when stripped of the armour of this distance between strangers.

He reaches for her.  

These were very interesting times.

 

\--

 

"I have to go." She's mussed and almost shy now that they’re no longer naked and exposed to each other. As if the act of donning clothes has made her forget how wanton she could be, has reminded her that the world has expectations on how one should behave.

She’s pulling on her jeans, the washed out, threadbare sort favored by the cool kids these days. The kind with the ripped knees and a pricetag higher than one would believe given their state of artistic ruin. This girl isn't hurting for money.

He should get going as well. He should've been somewhere else hours ago, but -- needs must. 

"It was good to meet you..." 

She trails off and they share the awkward silence between lovers who have forgotten (or maybe never even knew) each other’s names. He supposes he should be a tad slighted by that, but now they’re even. Besides, what use were names when there was touch and feel and taste?

"Petyr. I’m Petyr.” 

“Alayne.”

“Alayne.” What a coincidence. So Oedipal. “Nice to meet you.” 

Then she’s rambling on in what he registers as a charming fashion, but now his mind is too clouded to pay full attention. In the harsh light of day he finds he’s still underwater. Has been for over year. The alcohol as always only served as a temporary balm. A way to escape the crush of memory, of indefatigable loss weighing down on him with the first blush of sobriety. 

He can do this. He banters back smoothly, tosses out a bit of innuendo and is rewarded by the flush of colour to her cheeks. Peaches and cream. Delicious. He’d always been good at innuendo. He’d once been good at a lot of things.  

Once. 

All things aside, his day is already off to an auspicious - if late - start. There were worse ways to begin than being pounced on by last night's hookup - but that's why he's here in the first place. To get away from it all, start anew.

He listens to the sounds of her letting herself out. Soft footsteps on hardwood. The gentle jingle of wind chimes and she’s out the door.

Petyr takes a long, hard look at himself in the mirror. He imagines their forms superimposed upon one another, recalling the way she had studied her own before they parted. He rests his weight on his arms, taking deep, steadying breaths.

_I am in mourning for my life_.

 

\--

 

King’s Landing University Teaching Hospital, that great beast of a compound, is sprawled out over dozens of acres of impeccably manicured turf and open plan buildings. What had initially started off as a soaring tribute to Brutalist architecture, had eventually devolved into a farce of pretentious genteelity as aesthetic sense warred with political posturing, resulting in a car crash of styles. Neo-Palladian forced to coexist with the older, preexisting Gothic core, and with the Modern Industrial-designed clutch of newer buildings where they had transferred the main medical departments.

Patches of tastefully exposed brick, their large glass windows framed by blackened steel, the four main edifices in crucifix formation, connected to each other by a series of glass and stone bridges.

The big four. Paediatrics. Internal Medicine. Obstetrics and Gynecology. Surgery. 

From these trunks sprung forth branches of subspecialties, each found in a separate wing tethered to their main specialty artery by bridges.

Dr Tywin Lannister looks out over his domain from one of these windows, discreetly cracked open to let the telltale plumes of tobacco smoke out. 

A forest green classic 1967 Mustang Fastback with racing stripes pulls into the parking lot right outside Surgery and smoothly backs into an available slot. The growl of the massive V8 echoing across the expanse of wide open space as its owner gives the accelerator a last, loving rev before switching off the engine. 

Petyr Baelish steps out, silver temples glinting in the mid-morning sun.

There is a softening in the eyes of the old Lion, and he carefully puts out his cigar, balancing it on the antique porcelain ashtray  on his desk as he shrugs his white coat on over his scrubs. At fifty-four years old, the Chief of Surgery looks every bit his age and he made that age look good.

With brisk strides containing the pent-up energy that has been the envy of many much younger men, he stalks down the corridor from his office, the people instinctively parting at the sound of his mere approach. 

He is an apex predator in a hallway of sheep.

As the elevator doors close before him, mercifully devoid of any other passengers, he allows himself the slightest softening of his eyes - the equivalent of a smile. 

It was good to be King.

 

—

 

“You will do great things here, Petyr.”

The hospital is beautiful. The facilities, state of the art. The Neurosurgery program itself is one of the most respected in Westeros. Second most respected - the first being Vale Memorial. The pitch is good, and honestly, Tywin had him the moment he’d rang Petyr up one blustery day as the latter had been so deep into his cups that when he woke up, he wasn’t sure if he had dreamed it all. A quick ring back quickly confirmed that indeed, Dr Lannister was dead serious about his offer, one that Petyr needed very little incentive to accept. There wasn’t much left for him up at Vale, anyway. If anything, the older man had pulled him out of the depths of the ruins his life had become, offered him a lifeline. A chance to start anew. 

He tosses a confident smirk in the direction of his former mentor. “You believe so?” 

“Without a doubt. We have one of the most promising batches of senior residents in recent memory. One of them, I think, would fit in quite nicely in the Neurosurgery program." 

“Does he have a wife? Family? A death wish?” Brief flash of white teeth. My, he was in high spirits today. There was something about this place, about being in the sterile, climate-controlled environment of the OR complex once more that was making him positively _giddy_.

“She, actually,” his former mentor corrects and they’re both distracted by the sound of doors opening, the taller man looking up, recognition lighting his features. “Ah, Dr Stark. Just the girl I wanted to see.“ 

Petyr turns around and he’s not certain if he’s hallucinating or still drunk. 

Because she’s coming towards them, and this cannot be fucking for real. It’s a fantasy. It’s gods-damned Schrödinger’s Rhapsody. 

But that corona of red hair is unmistakeable, the shade is too freshly embedded into recent memory, the scent still lingering in his olfactory bulb. 

Well, hello.

 

\--

 

She's beautiful, of course.

She's beautiful and she's the last thing he ever expected to see casually strolling out the doors of the OR, shaking her hair out of her surgical cap. 

Impossible for anybody to look good in a pair of scrubs but damned if she didn't do just that. She continues to define the impossible, has been defining it since last night at the bar.

She's beautiful, and she's completely out of his league.  

Sunday night and again on Monday morning, aside, of course. Fluke and a one shot - well, three shot if you're going to be precise about it. Doctors were supposed to be precise. Make a mistake, and somebody dies. It's a heady responsibility, and a terrifying one as well.  

He’s terrified and yet inordinately pleased at the same time. The thought of starting all over looking like less of an impossible task and he feels like he could truly put roots down in this place.

She’s shaking his hand and he’s smiling like a buffoon because there’s nothing else he can do except just live out the seconds because he’s tired of doing anything _but_ live.

This girl gives him hope.  

And in that moment, for the first time in a very long time, all was right in Petyr Baelish’s world.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

She finds him leaning against a classic 'Stang in the parking lot, having a smoke with Margaery Tyrell. His name is Petyr Baelish and that truth alone makes her head spin.  

The legend that was Petyr Baelish dropped off the face of the medical world a year ago. Whispers of sex and substance abuse. Of screwing his boss's wife. 

Such delicious scandal. If only hearsay were backed up by fact. It had all the makings of a soap opera. Nothing more nightmarish in the mind of a medical practitioner than the revoking of a hard-earned licence. Over a decade of literal blood, sweat, and tears gone in a heartbeat. All due to bad decision-making.

But Medicine is an exact science. It’s a practice based on facts. And the fact of the present is, right now, Petyr Baelish is smiling and joking. He's being nonchalantly charming with her best friend. His elegant fingers casually balance the cigarette at the point where paper meets filter, raising it to his lips and taking deep drags. The lit end flares briefly, a thin orange glow surrounding the grey nest at its center. 

He's watching the trajectory of her approach and his mouth twitches into a brief, lazy smirk.  

"Dr Stark." 

"Sans!" Margaery flicks the butt of her cigarette in the general direction of the trashcan. It glances off the rim and spirals onto the ground, the still-lit end bright against the blacktop.

"What's up?" Her attempt at casual only makes her sound breathless and much too peppy to her ears. Or was she being overly critical in the way only people with something to hide are of their performances? She pulls her coat tighter around herself, as if to form a cocoon with which to insulate her from the realities she was not quite ready to face. 

Margaery, bless her, just flashes her an easy smile – the real one she reserves for Sansa alone, symmetrical with just a hint of teeth. 

“Oh, nothing much. I was just leaving. Was absolutely dying for a cig after dealing with the OR scheduling. Got to the car and realised I’d left my pack at home this morning. Was about to go back inside and have a proper sulk when I ran into Dr Baelish. What a lifesaver. He’s here for a few days.” Here she shoots him a grateful grin, her smile transforming ever so subtly. A close-mouthed smirk with a hint of a curl at the corner of her mouth, both mischievous and guileless all at once.

“It was nothing,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “The pleasure of your company was very much appreciated, Dr Tyrell.” 

“Hey, I owe you one. Hit me up if you ever need anybody to show you around,” she adds. “Although, how do you two even know each other,” she gestures vaguely in the space between them.

“We met earlier inside the hospital,” says Dr Baelish. Sansa mumbles a reply in the affirmative that earns her a puzzled look from Margaery, though the other girl quickly recovers.

“That’s great! Stark and I’d be glad to take you out for drinks or something once you’re settled in. There’s a bar hereabouts that’s got a good selection of microbrews - though you look like a scotch man to me. Am I right? Tell me I’m right.”

At the mention of the word ‘bar’ his eyes meet Sansa’s. She feels a flush of heat against her neck and grits her teeth in an attempt to stave off the blush that was forthcoming.

Dr Baelish lets out a raspy chuckle, addressing Margaery. “I’m an ‘anything with alcohol is better than water’ kind of man, Dr. Tyrell. You’ll find I’m not that discerning when it comes to drinks as long as the company is good.”

Margaery nods her head in acknowledgement, her smile ratcheting up a notch to border on incorrigible flirt. “Well, you’ll find I can be very good company.”

“Oh, you most certainly are.” 

Margaery’s phone chirps out an incoming text alert and she fishes it out from her coat pocket, calmly scrolling through the message before abruptly straightening out, a small frown of concentration marring her features. “I have to go.”

“Problem?” Sansa inquired.

Margaery’s attention remained fixed on her phone screen as she typed a rapid response. 

“Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll see you later, yeah?” 

“Do you need me to come with you?” 

“No, it’s all good. I’ll call you when I’ve sorted it out.” 

Sansa knew better than to pry. To be Margaery’s friend meant to accept Margaery for all of her tricks and idiosyncrasies without question. “Sure. Drinks at Gendry’s?”

“You got it. Thank you again, Dr. Baelish. I guess I’ll be seeing you around.” 

“Until the next time, Dr Tyrell,” he says.

Dr Baelish takes a drag off his cigarette and they watch in shared silence broken only by the chirping of birds, by the sound of car horns honking from somewhere until she crosses the lot and enters the Emergency Room.

He flicks his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toes of his boots. They're brown, bespoke and expensive. The leather polished to a high sheen. Pretty, just like him. 

“You’re a Surgeon,” he tosses out without preamble. The weight of expectation hangs in the air between them, heavy with promise. Sansa wills herself not to fidget under his silent regard. 

“I am,” she confirms instead of all the questions she would much rather ask. “And it looks like you’re my Attending.” 

“Not quite. Contract hasn’t even been signed yet. I’m only here for a week.” 

“Oh.” Well that changed _everything_. 

A flash of pearly white teeth at her. Big bad wolf baiting a redhead in this neck of the woods. “Wanna go for a ride?” 

Before she can stop herself, a response slides out of her mouth, words curling around her head like the tendrils of a drug-fuelled dream. “Sure, why not?” 

They were a beautiful disaster waiting to happen.  

 

*

 

 _Don’t accept candy from strangers_ , every child is taught from the moment they are allowed to venture outside on their own. _Only bad girls go riding in cars with boys_ , a repeated Catholic School admonishment to scare good girls into remaining good. 

Sansa always thought she was a good girl. 

She must not have paid very close attention to those lessons.

Dr Baelish is no boy that much is clear, and he’s a solid eight in her book.

He’s a mess of contradictions. He’s no spring chicken but something in him still brims with the earnestness of youth. There’s a streak of mean his pretty green eyes can’t hide.

The vibrations drum up her thighs, into her core. The sleek muscle car crawls at a docile pace through the old citadel surrounding the hospital, its engine chafing at the enforced speed limits with a low rumble of protest. Dr Baelish navigates the maze of narrow cobblestone streets with too much familiarity for a newcomer before pulling out into the highway, blowing into full speed, the throttle opening up and finally, the great beast of a V8 smooths into its stride, running the way it was meant to be. 

“Where are you taking me?” 

“Away,” he chuckles and Sansa fights the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Dr Baelish, that was a legitimate question.” 

“Petyr,” he corrects. “Dr Baelish is the Head of Neurosurgery up at Vale Memorial – was the Head,” he quickly amends. The needle on the odometer climbs higher and higher as the engine’s roar fills her ears. “I don’t know where I’m going. I haven’t known for a long time.”

“That’s not a very reassuring answer, Dr Bae—Petyr,” she amends.

The windows are cracked open ever so slightly and Sansa can hear the wind whistling through the small slit into the car, through the imperfections in its forty-year-old weld. The rhythmic tempo of the tires rolling underneath reminds her of the chug of those old-fashioned locomotives in the black and white Westerns her daddy loves. 

“It’s not meant to be. You don’t know me, yet you got into a car with me. Why?”

Sansa could only bite her lower lip in reply as she watched the miles speed past.

 

*

 

Car sex. 

What a cop out.

She was a good girl. Good girls don’t get into cars with strange men and proceed to fuck their brains out on the shotgun seat while parked to the side of a stretch of empty road.

Good girls didn’t pick up strange men in bars either.

She’s not certain when the shift happened, when passion for the craft morphed into a constant struggle just to get through the day. Her interest had long been dulled by the mindless ennui brought about by unending routine, countless hours of nothing punctuated by spurts of frenetic activity, by the mad dash to save a life.

There really was no reason to be doing this other than Dr Baelish could make her forget for a few brief moments the succession of confusing turns her life had taken as of late.

But his mouth is soft and the rasp of stubble against her neck, moving downwards towards the valley in between her breasts is shorting out her synapses and she’s riding high on a rush of dopamine and serotonin.

Yeah. Coke had nothing on the feel of Petyr Baelish’s warm, warm hands gently pushing her shirt off her shoulders, of his right hand trailing down the small of her back to insinuate itself into her jeans, giving her ass a naughty squeeze. 

Her yelp of protest is swallowed once more by the feel of his lips against hers, dosing her with more of those drugging, thought-stalling kisses. 

Dr Sansa Stark, top student of her medical school class gladly shut off her brain and gave herself over once more to sensation.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all of you who have been kind enough to leave feedback. I do love hearing your thoughts and comments, so, drop me a line!


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